


Prompt: “Do these cigarettes have radiation? You know what- don't answer that.”

by Fridays__Child



Series: Wasteland Rough Cuts and Rambles [1]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: F/M, Multi, One-Shot, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, probably smut, prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:13:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23310685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fridays__Child/pseuds/Fridays__Child
Summary: Prompt: “Do these cigarettes have radiation? You know what- don't answer that.”
Relationships: Deacon/Female Sole Survivor, Deacon/Sole Survivor (Fallout)
Series: Wasteland Rough Cuts and Rambles [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1679983
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	Prompt: “Do these cigarettes have radiation? You know what- don't answer that.”

**Author's Note:**

> What better time to get back into writing after a 10 year hiatus than when your state is under indefinite house arrest?
> 
> This is rambly, unedited, and not at all what I wanted to post, but I'm determined to get a prompt done a day while I begin to draft out my long-form story.
> 
> Constructive criticism is welcome, but please be gentle. It's been a while.

**Prompt: “Do these cigarettes have radiation? You know what- don't answer that.”**

It was an urban legend that The Third Rail had a closing time. The remains of the train station offered a refuge for both the downtrodden and the liberated folk of Goodneighbor, a small slither of escapism that allowed it’s patrons to disappear within the cigarette smoke and soft jazz, beyond the hours that polite society held before the bombs dropped.

But in the twilight zone when the sun began to rise, when it was too late for last call and too early for a hair-of-the-dog tipple, the pub had dwindled to the close as empty as it would ever be. Gene grouched on the dirty floor behind the counter, taking inventory of what little booze they still held. Whitechapel Charlie had finally begun trusting her enough to place the orders with Daisy at the end of a shift, instead choosing to berate the last of the stragglers that Ham was tossing out. Her bar experience before the war had proved that there was no better motivation for rioting than a dry town, and she’d prefer to stay in Hancock’s good books.

She was stifling a yawn when the clink of caps hit the counter, a pair of sunglasses attached to a shit-eating grin leering over the edge of a counter. 

“Am I too late for a drink?”

Gene rolled the crinks from her neck, moving the dirty rag away from the stranger on the counter. She longed to tell him to fuck off, to crawl back home and get more than four hours sleep before her next shift began, but her ongoing tenancy at the Rexford was eating a hole in the small amount of caps she carried. Besides, the verbal tirade Charlie would give her wasn’t worth the extra shut eye, even if he forgot that his flesh and bone employee still needed basic human functions.

Not asking the man what he wanted, she poured a whiskey for both, making it a double on second thought. She pushed it towards him. “Only because I felt like one too.”

“Cheers,” he grinned, downing his glass and tapping the edge for a refill. Raising an eyebrow, Gene topped them both up.

“I think you’re a little late to the party honey, most of the folk finish drinking when Mags finishes her encore.”

The man leaned back on the bar stool, a hand clutched to his chest as if his words had wounded him. “In Goodneighbor, seriously? I thought you guys knew how to party.”

Cradling her drink in her hand, Gene resumed spot cleaning the bar. “We do, but it’s also a Tuesday. Even the loosest townsfolk still have jobs to go to, most of which are better performed with some semblance of sleep beforehand.” Shrugging, she added, “How else do you think we afford the drinks?”

“Point taken.”

Moving around the counter, Gene began lifting the chairs up on to their tables, the long-held hospitality sign that “Fuck off, we’re closing”. She resolved to leave the floors to Charlie. Grateful for the job or not, she was not cleaning super mutant brains, or brahmin shit, or whatever the hell got dragged through the venue for a third night in a row. She had basically scrubbed the skin raw from her hands trying to remove the stench the day before.

Popping two cigarettes into his not-unattractive mouth, the man’s long fingers lit the two with a gold-plated lighter, before holding one out to her. The soft smoke beckoned like a long-forgotten lover, whispering of a bad habit she had broken a lifetime ago but saw no point in upholding now. 

“ Do these cigarettes have radiation? You know what- don't answer that.” Tilting her chin to him, “Do you mind, I kind of have my hands full.”

He held out the cigarette to her lips, letting her take a deep drag and releasing with a sigh, it’s warmth sparking something (nostalgia?) in her chest. Putting the chair down, she grabbed her smoke from him and took another draw. 

“So, are you from the same factory that they shipped old mate Charlie from? Whilst I do like that they kept the accent, the exterior is vastly improved.”

“Do you flirt with all women by asking if they’re synths? Because I can’t imagine it working out too well for you.”

He leaned forward, shit-eating grin returning. “Call it professional curiosity. If I phrase it as, ‘where are you from,’ will you answer?”

She blew the smoke in his direction. “England. You? Your accent hardly screams Massachusetts.”

He shrugged. “A little bit of everywhere. I never stay in the same place for too long. Makes me antsy.” Stubbing his cigarette out on his boot, he leaned back in his stool again. “So… How long have you been in beautiful Boston?”

Dumping her cigarette in his half-finished drink, she leaned forward to analyse his face. He was older, for sure, soft lines indenting his pale skin, which seemed a shade too pale for his dark hair. Behind the sunglasses, she could make out the softest scattering of freckles and damage, a faded scar that acted as a reminder of the horrors of the wasteland. He seemed… familiar, in a way. The same way a long-lost teacher or classmate would be, recognisable but hazy without context.

“Have we met?” When he pulled a face, she added, “you seem awful friendly for a guy that just wants a last drink.”

“And here I thought bartenders were the natural ear to the average man.” 

She stared him down, unwavering.

“I just have one of those faces, doll.”

Reaching into his shirt pocket, Gene pulled herself another cigarette, letting him hold out the lighter flame for her to lean into.

“It’s a good face honey, but you’re not answering the question.”

He grabbed the cigarette from her, taking a draw then handing it back with a smirk.

“I’ll make you a deal. You let me walk you home, and we’ll continue our little game of 20 questions.”

Resting on the counter, she leaned forward until he came closer to her, cocking his head to the side like she was about to reveal a secret. Exhaling slowly, she blew a plume of smoke towards his face.

“You help me finish closing up the bar, and maybe I’ll think about letting you.”


End file.
